


Curiosity

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Intellectual snobbery?" / "Intellectuals' violence, and don't you let yourselves forget it. . As good as two gold pieces for effort worthy of one."<br/>They have still got plenty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to elanid for what help was possible at the time (err; my fault). Happy Yuletide to cdeacon especially!   
>  Set after RSURS; heading North is an invention (so far as I know, at least); flashbacks are to indeterminate pre-TLoLL time.
> 
> Written for cdeacon

 

 

"Can you tell me what you'd call that?" said Chains, pointing. His voice was instructing again, and, on his back in surprisingly soft grass, Jean's inclination for instruction was not particularly strong. "You're spending too much time with Lamora!" Chains barked, and he did not point again.

Jean had not spent enough time with Locke to be concocting a plan without looking at all; he was enjoying the breeze. "The sky," he said lazily, a smile creeping across his lips in the way it did when he felt comfortable - as opposed to not uncomfortable - talking at Chains. He was a Gentleman Bastard and allotted this privilege. Locke shook his head, probably scorning his lack of subtlety. Galdo snorted quietly to his left.

"And what," said Chains, "would you be inclined to call it in Tel Verrar?"

"He probably wouldn't see it," said Locke, several yards away and already sitting up. "His throat'd be slit."

"Does his throat look slit to you?"

"That's not the point," said Locke dismissively. Father Chains gave him the look of slight incredulousness that he reserved for Locke. "I can see - "

"We aren't talking about you at the moment, Lamora," Chains told him, less than patiently. "Tannen, if you are ever invited to a Discourse, which possibly wrongly assumes you to be alive in several years' time, you will not be lucky enough to be asked to do nothing but sums."

"A Discourse?"

"Gatherings," said Chains. "Gatherings of mostly-Vadran intellectuals and all those who manage to acquire tickets."

"Intellectual snobbery?" said one of the Sanzas.

"Intellectual violence," said Chains sharply, "and don't you ever forget it. Questions, discussion, sure - it isn't what they're at a Discourse for. They show off their bullshit; they..." He shook his head. "Not the point."

Locke gave Chains a vaguely interested look and lay down in the grass again, hearing Galdo snort a second time.

"They are for those who believe in intellectual pursuit, though," he enunciated, "and don't let yourselves forget that. Likely, your involvement in one at any time is much too great an assumption, because not only need you be alive in a few years, a difficult prospect in itself, but you must find your way - alive - to The Seven Marrows - " Locke's head tilted up in some interest - "and someone, most likely myself, must find you a ticket. However. You care about this last point, boys, because it's an easy penny and an exercise of mind - as good as two gold pieces for effort worthy of one." He paused. "Tannen, I'm waiting."

"You mean to say these intellectuals carry but one gold piece 'round with them all the time? I know that isn't so," Locke insisted. "Not even all the way up North like - "

"The points of light, or the space in between - ?" said Jean.

Chains shook his head, the corners of his mouth twisting mildly. "Thirteen gods, teach me to encourage you boys."

"No need," Galdo said lazily, grinning.

"But we'll take it where we can get it," Locke said seriously. "Jean, just wait, the things we've gotten without any work even; we tell these stories and - "

"Careful, now," Chains remarked. "Don't go letting him think it's easy."

"Never." Locke grinned at Jean, and both boys lay back in the grass, closer to sleep than to memorizing astrolore.

-

"While we're floating," said Jean.

"You never did learn your naval termin - ," Locke said, and he stopped, without apology.

"No," Jean answered, meeting Locke's eyes, "I never spared the time." He received a nod and they went about their business, Locke milling around the ship, fingertip against fingertip, muttering to himself. Jean formed his own pensive expression, standing at the helm, eyes darting sporadically.

"Much as it wounds me to interrupt your delicate thought process. Jean, I must inquire as to how it is you'd calculate the quickest route to The Seven Marrows that avoids the shortest distance." Jean stared. Locke watched his expression shift for a few moments, and it occurred to him that Jean was now wondering whether to ask him if his brains were going more quickly than his body. "Don't be ridiculous," Locke said quickly; "it's only that I haven't got enough time to do both that and pull a plan out of thin air. We've got to get invitations in our first ten hours there - You don't look busy enough for a delicate scheme of our caliber, Tannen."

"I'm never busy enough for - " Jean stopped; Locke didn't press him. "You know, in The Seven Marrows, they'd say the stars last night were telling us _Go forth, strangers, for sooner better be return'd..._ "

Locke smirked slightly. "In Camorr, that we should be still and watch; in Tel Verrar, that death is in the air. Yes."

Jean shook his head and returned his attention to a knot. "Not so different really."

"No."

"What d'you think?" Jean asked, less blandly than he'd have liked. "Death? Still? Home? What's in store for this lark?"

"I think you'll never pass for Vadran," Locke said, "despite any practice." He coughed and put on the accent; threw a few phrases back and forth. "Nod. Don't talk. I'll get us through the Discourse." He smiled unusually widely and clapped Jean's shoulder. "These intellectual types, they'll get us through the winter," he said in a distinctly Vadran-accented Therin.

"I'm hoping for astrology," said Jean in a monotone. Then, more brightly, "I'll bet they don't know the Camorri - "

"All that time spent forcing caution on me!" The wind abruptly gained speed and he felt a cold burn on his face as he turned to face Jean. "Not a lot of those frequenting Discourses know Camorri - I don't know why I bother."

"What have we got to lose?"

-

"We've always got more shit!" said Locke giddily.

Calo nudged Jean. "This isn't even unusual, if you can believe it." He snorted. "But true indeed!" They strolled along Camorri streets, dodging the muddy puddles and the splashes from them. Locke dashed into an alley all of a sudden, grabbing Jean, who fell half on top of him into the mud.

"Oof," he said.

"Keep up, Tannen." The tone of his voice suggested joking, and somewhat less warily, Jean played along.

"Where are Calo and Galdo?"

"They'll take care of themselves," Locke said brightly. "They've been in the business longer than I. You and I, we're here because to our right were a couple of...friends of ours. You know. The ones who don't give a flying fuck about the Sanzas but who would dearly like to fry the two of us alive."

Jean grunted again and got to his feet. "You won't get a thank-you even if you might deserve it, but - "

"Wasn't really expecting it," Locke admitted. "Even as a brother I'm told I can be - "

"Bit of a pain in the backside?" said Calo.

"Wouldn't've put it that way myself," Locke said amiably, "but I'm certain I deserve it."

"I haven't asked for more apology," said Jean. "I don't want anything else. You've fought for me. I'll fight for you. I've knocked you into the mud." His mouth crinkled ruefully, suggesting years behind his eyes he couldn't possibly have lived. "You've now knocked me into the mud. I assume you'll explain yourself, because curious I certainly - "

"Look, Jean Tannen, as a Gentleman Bastard, you've landed yourself in a lovely..." Locke stopped suddenly, his gaze shifting behind Jean.

"Sometimes," Calo said, "he gives unnecessary speeches. He was so concise when he came to us. Fond memories, eh, Galo?"

"The fondest. He even ate concisely."

"Concisely like a Raegallat novel," Calo snorted. "We, however - we were the gold of the Right People of Camorr. Hell, we still are. Since Lamora, though...well, still we hold the titles at the whorehouse - "

Jean laughed despite himself.

-

The sky changed almost imperceptibly as they sailed North. Locke crept out of his bunk between evening and morning and watched it, sometimes, certain to keep the Vadran accent even in his thoughts. They crept increasingly northerly and the winds chapped his face more severely, snowflakes beginning to dance in between the stars. He watched his breath puff in front of him and fade.

"You're not sleeping," Jean pointed out.

"No. A bit," he amended. "It's not bad out here yet." Jean raised an eyebrow. "Just because I look like it," Locke snapped. "We'll reach The Seven Marrows in some days' time - "

"Where I will promptly embarrass myself and you will fall flat on your face without me," said Jean, apparently making some effort at 'peaceably'. "If either of us - I know you can still speak Vadran with whatever accent necessary as well as you can Therin without one now, but that isn't all - I don't think you can make it to a Discourse by yourself, Locke. Give it the fuck up."

"I know where to get the clothes; I've got - "

"You haven't got the slightest idea."

"I'll know where to go when we get to. There's always one of these ridiculous - and someone stupid with a lot of money has always got a silly desire to invite some unknowns, do some shaking up - " Discourses were, after all, the only places at which intellectuals not of the Gentleman Bastards' persuasion could reliably get violent.

Locke had enjoyed them before he was a garrista. He also nearly always had to relinquish the place Father Chains would secure for one of his pezons to Calo or Galdo, because even Jean's patience didn't make him a master of mathematics, and the Sanzas were always passable enough to beat him at the tests which earned one special Gentleman Bastard a ticket to The Seven Marrows.

It was his turn now, he snorted to himself. After Fehrwight, he could be anybody.

"Are you sure you don't - " Jean began.

"I told you," said Locke irritatedly. "We aren't going to spend the rest of our lives slipping from sham to sham in search of a fucking vial of fucking liquid for one fucking person. Who's to say what'll - " He shook his head. "I don't want to hear about this anymore. I want to hear about all the shit you're planning to haul back onto this boat of ours."

"Not ours," Jean pointed out.

"Rich - "

"Don't," Jean said. "Fucking useless." He glanced at Locke, and, halfheartedly, "After we've got shit to claim."

"We've always got more shit."

Locke sighed and handed an extra coat to Jean. "Brush up on the accent.

"We've always got more shit," Locke repeated. "Fuck the Vadrans, fuck the intellectuals; we've got the Discourse tickets in the palm of our hands; for the first time, two Gentleman Bastards will attend. That's plenty of shit. Clearly, Jean, you are joking."

Jean said nothing.

"You and I, we're richer and cleverer than everyone else."

 


End file.
